"The wind blows where it chooses . . ." John 3:8

Month: November 2015

Now that the sun has set on Thanksgiving Day, folks have to decide what to do for the rest of the holiday weekend. Almost everyone will enjoy leftovers from the feasting on Thursday. Some will go shopping, which necessarily means that others will be working. Some will watch football and take naps and lounge around the house. Then there are folks like us who need to get out of the house and go on an adventure. My wife and I took our boys and their visiting cousins to visit NASA’s Johnson Space Center. The perfect prelude to that experience was great Italian food at a restaurant called Frenchies, which is just down the road from there. The walls of that restaurant are covered with photographs of astronauts, many of them signed.

What are you doing after your Thanksgiving Day feasting? Write a haiku about that, creating one verse with five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line. Here’s mine:

Loosen a little our grip, O Lord, on our words and our ways, our fears and our fretfulness, that finding ourselves found in you, we may venture from the safety of the shore and launch afresh into the waters of grace with Christ, the Morning Star, as our guide.[1]Amen.

Arnold Rothstein was an American gangster most famously accused of conspiring to fix the 1919 Word Series. His last words came after being shot during a poker game in 1928. When asked who shot him, Rothstein said,

In other words, in spite of the fact that he was close to death, Rothstein refused to cross a line and rat out his attacker from the world of organized crime. This is who he was to the very end — a guy who wouldn’t rat. His last words were intended to convey that message to the police.

That story about Rothstein introduced an episode of This American Life on public radio back in 1998. The episode was entirely about last words and why they matter to us. The host of This American Life, Ira Glass, went on to say:

. . . this is what we want from last words, let me tell you, this kind of summing up of who a person is. You know, sometimes you’ll see those collections of famous last words that were printed in the paper or in the Sunday magazine, and they all have this quality — they always do — of pretending to sum up an entire life. Bing Crosby, “That was a great game of golf, fellers.” WC Fields, “I’ve spent a lot of time searching through the Bible for loopholes.” Oscar Wilde, “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.” And you know, the fact is, Oscar Wilde didn’t even say that on his death bed. It’s a remark he made to a friend at a cafe a month before he died. That’s how much we want to believe in these things.

But, you know, we want our lives to mean something, and we want to believe that words can capture that meaning. And, seen in that way, last words, attempts at last words, a one final shot at figuring it all out, summing it all up, they have this way of asserting the fact of our existence at the exact moment of our annihilation.[3]

This morning we’ve already heard royal last words from the Old Testament. According to the Second Book of Samuel, here is the introduction of the final testimony of David — the second but most important king in the history and memory of ancient Israel:

The oracle of David, son of Jesse, the oracle of the man whom God exalted, the anointed of the God of Jacob, the favorite of the Strong One of Israel: The spirit of the Lord speaks through me, his word is upon my tongue.[4]

So these are really the words of Israel’s God, described as the Rock, who declares:

One who rules over people justly, ruling in the fear of God, is like the light of morning, like the sun rising on a cloudless morning, gleaming from the rain on the grassy land.[5]

David asks a rhetorical question in response, and, making it all very clear to the people who surround him in his final days, he connects what God has said to the promise that God made to him long ago:

Is not my house like this with God? For he has made with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things and secure.[6]

David is referring to the divine promise that his family will become a dynasty that “shall be made sure forever.”[7]

This old man, chosen of God, concludes with the assurance that the godless, being not only useless but also harmful to life will face destruction. Now that’s really interesting, if you take a moment to think about it, coming from the lips of someone who had an affair with Bathsheba and arranged for her husband Uriah to be killed on the battlefield and who also ignored the rape of his daughter Tamar, igniting a war with his son Absalom that nearly ended his reign.

It’s not surprising, therefore, that he has some additional last words for his heir to the throne — Solomon, the son of David and Bathsheba. Think of these as footnotes that were not included in the royal press release about the dying king. But they do appear in the Bible, in the second chapter of the First Book of Kings. David opens with pious wisdom about walking in the way of the Lord. But his words quickly turn toward a different and more practical kind of wisdom about dealing with three individuals who pose a threat to Solomon’s future.

One was a wealthy landowner, who had been generous to David and to whom David’s family would remain indebted unless he was repaid. But the others would receive a different kind of repayment at the wrong end of a sword. Joab had been David’s “trusted general and hatchet man.” He had resolved the “Uriah question” for David.[8] Shimei had publicly insulted David but sought to be reconciled with him after Absalom’s failed rebellion. So David had given his oath to Shimei, saying,

It’s easy to imagine this as a movie about the mob. David, on his death bed, whispers into the ear of Solomon. As he tells his son what to do, the ominous background music intensifies and what you see is the future silently unfolding on the big screen. A briefcase full of cash is opened in front of the wealthy landowner, followed by a handshake. Then Joab is slain while seeking sanctuary by grabbing the horns of the altar. Finally, after three years of house arrest, Shimei is killed too.

But Solomon doesn’t stop there. Having learned from his father how best to run the family business, Solomon adds others to this list of those who might not remain loyal to him. So the circle of violence and bloodshed continues to widen — all in the name of establishing peace and security.

Yet David isn’t remembered primarily for being unfaithful, unforgiving, and unmerciful. He’s remembered instead as an unlikely vessel of God’s grace, which is always oriented toward God’s future. It has been said that God writes straight with crooked lines, bringing good out of evil and transforming our mistakes, which are many. That is certainly true here. The promise that the house of David would be established forever was “the beginning point of graciousness without qualification” in the experience of God’s people.[10]

Did you notice how that promise was remembered in today’s psalm? Because our human nature can’t stand it to be otherwise, Psalm 132 adds a conditional clause:

But that’s not how the promise was given. It was an unconditional pledge of love.

That promise would not be fulfilled through the perpetual unsheathing of swords and spilling of blood. It would not be fulfilled in an unbroken political dynasty with borders drawn as lines in the sand. It would come a thousand years later when another descendant of David, a simple carpenter named Joseph, went to bed worried about his future. In a dream, an angel told him not to be afraid to marry his pregnant fiancee. So she became his wife and bore a son, whom he named Jesus.

It is Jesus who reigns in love across the pages of the gospels as he forgives and heals those in need. It is Jesus who reigns in suffering from the cross as he embraces those who feel abandoned and godforsaken. It is Jesus who reigns now as the Prince of Peace, whose kingdom — both temporally and spatially — will have no end.

That kingdom of mercy includes not only a deeply flawed human being named David but also you and me and the person sitting next to you, the woman who really gets on your nerves, the stranger who scares you, and lots of other surprising folks. In his book Grace in Addiction, Episcopal priest John Zahl describes it this way:

Grace is the hope that seeks us out when we are at our worst. It looks forward to the long, hard road ahead. Grace is not worried, even if everything falls apart and everything goes wrong.

It is the love of God that does not let go. It brings good out of bad, and it sees hope where there is none. Grace always gives another chance. Grace waits. It stands when you have fallen; it leaves the door open.

Grace stays awake for you when you can’t keep your eyes open for another minute, even though you know you should.[12]

I love that last part about grace staying awake for you when you can’t keep your eyes open for another minute. I would only add this: Grace also stays awake for you when you close your eyes one last time and fall asleep in the arms of death, an embrace that neither gangsters nor anointed kings can escape. Grace comes from a love that’s stronger than death.

Our last words are not defiance before annihilation, as Ira Glass put it. They are the unvarnished thoughts of forgiven sinners. That is who we are to the very end — forgiven sinners. It’s either true or not true. I believe it’s true.

I hope our last words will be more charitable than David’s advice to Solomon. But let’s face the harsh truth: There’s alway the possibility that they might not be. Even then, remember some of the last words of Jesus, who said of those torturing him,

This afternoon, as part of my series called “On the Road with the Rector,” I attended a lecture at the University of St. Thomas on “Flannery O’Connor, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Christ Pantocrator” by Ralph Wood. He is a former professor of mine at Wake Forest University who is now University Professor of Theology and Literature at Baylor University. I found myself at one point looking over his shoulder into the eyes of a self-portrait of Flannery O’Connor, which is eerily similar to the icon known as Christ Pantocrator. I love the way that her hat becomes just like the halo of an icon.

Are there authors like Flannery O’Connor who have shaped you in certain ways and made you look differently at yourself or the world around you? Write a haiku about them or one of them. Simply create a verse with five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line. Here’s mine:

O’Connor loved the
peacock — a tail full of suns.
“Christ will come like that.”

Living in the City of Houston provides us with incredible opportunities to participate in cultural and intellectual events. Throughout the year, I’ll invite you and your friends and neighbors to join me in some of these activities that might either strengthen or challenge us as Christians.

The next “On the Road with the Rector” event is a last-minute invitation and part of the Center for Thomistic Studies Colloquium Series at the University of St. Thomas. It will feature a lecture on “Flannery O’Connor, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Christ Pantocrator” by Ralph Wood, a former professor of mine at Wake Forest University who is now University Professor of Theology and Literature at Baylor University.

Professor Wood is the author of Flannery O’Connor and the Christ-Haunted South and was once interviewed by the awesome-but-now-defunct Wittenburg [sic] Door, which used to be the world’s “pretty much only religious satire magazine.” He also read a scripture lesson at my ordination to the priesthood more than 19 years ago at the Episcopal Church of the Resurrection in Surfside Beach, South Carolina.

His presentation, which is free and open to the public, will take place this afternoon — Friday, November 20 — from 12:10 to 2:00 p.m. in Sullivan Hall. That building is located on the campus at 4218 Yoakum Boulevard. Refreshments will be provided.

After picking up our boys at the end of school last Friday, my wife and I took them on a road trip to Camp Allen for a parish retreat over the weekend for Palmer Memorial Episcopal Church. Camp Allen is the camp and conference center for the Episcopal Diocese of Texas and located near the town of Navasota. The music for our journey came from the sound track for Star Wars. That should come as no surprise.

As the sun was setting and we were getting closer to our destination, we happened to be listening to John Williams’ “Binary Sunset.” Somewhere along the way, our youngest son, four-year-old Ben (a.k.a. John [Williams] the Evangelist), said this:

“When we get out of the car, can we leave this on so people know what Star Wars music is?”

This week marked the 40th anniversary of the sinking of the S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald on Lake Superior. On November 10, 1975, this Great Lakes freighter foundered only 17 miles from the safety of Whitefish Bay. There were no survivors among the 29 men aboard. One of them, Captain Ernest McSorely, was planning to retire after the voyage. Gordon Lightfoot wrote a popular song about the tragedy that I find haunting, especially when coupled with footage of the wreckage and a list of the names of the crew and the towns where they lived.

Today, of course, another tragedy unfolded in the City of Paris. More than 125 people have been killed in multiple, coordinated terrorist attacks throughout the French capital. Remember the victims, those who weep for them, and the people of that country in your prayers tonight. Hold them all in the love of God, knowing that you stand there as well.

If you want to write a haiku this week, write about your prayer, your memory, or your reflection that relates to a tragedy. It could be about today’s news or something either from your own past or from the pages of history. Your one verse only needs five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line.

Palmer Memorial Episcopal Church in Houston has a war memorial at the back of its nave. Flanking the doors that lead out of that worship space is a paneled, oak screen that lists the names of parishioners who served in the United States armed forces during World War II. Gold lettering highlights the names of those who died in that conflict. There is also a shelf for flowers on each side of those doors. Flowers adorning those shelves are placed in vases that were made out of artillery shells.

That sight reminds me of these words from the second chapter of the Book of Isaiah:

In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it. Many peoples shall come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.” For out of Zion shall go forth instruction, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!

Recently, a 93-year-old parishioner at Palmer Memorial Episcopal Church invited me to a very special lunch that’s part of a tradition that spans two decades. About 30 times annually, he and a good friend of his each invite one guest to join both of them for lunch. They don’t tell each other who they’ve invited, they never reinvite a guest, and they never return to the same Houston restaurant for this unique gathering. For example, a high-ranking Harris County Republican official and the local head of the Democratic Party were once surprisingly invited to the same meal. In my case, the other invited guest was a newly-elected member of the City Council in Bellaire.

Tradition is our theme for haiku this week. Can’t you hear Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof singing about that in the background? You might have that same passion for — or dislike of — a tradition in your own family, your workplace, your religious faith, your ethnic culture, etc. It could even be a new tradition that you wish would come into being in one of those settings. Tell us about it in a poetic verse with five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line.

Día de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead, is a Mexican holiday that begins on All Hallows Eve, October 31, continues through All Saints’ Day, November 1, and concludes on All Souls’ Day, November 2. There’s a great reflection on all of that in a post on the Contessa-Curessa Project, which is my wife’s blog. In the meantime, here are a few calaveras for Día de los Muertos on our refrigerator at the Rectory: